


Less of a Fall; More of a Push

by ConsultingHound



Series: Icarus, Fallen [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bit of Fluff, Case Fic, Cliffhangers, I'm not very nice to him tbh, Irene is... well Irene, Jealousy, Kidnapping, Lestrade is confused, M/M, MYCROFT! - Freeform, Moriarty has secrets, Mrs Hudson is a lovely person, Mrs Hudson is also a BAMF, Poor John, Wingfic, boys being stupid, lots of them - Freeform, murder case, slightly more than a bit actually, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 03:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingHound/pseuds/ConsultingHound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Brother knows best?</p><p>John and Sherlock need to talk but with Sherlock avoiding the subject, a string of suspect murders and everyone else sticking their noses in, its appearing unlikely that John will ever find the answers he's looking for.</p><p>Oh, and Moriarty's playing and he isn't making things easy.  </p><p>Set Post S1</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!   
> So here it is; a sequel fic. Firstly a huge Thank You for the feedback on my last fic, it was a real help and motivator and I hope you enjoy this just as much. The title is a line from one of my favourite comedy programs called Old Harry's Game (seriously recommend you go listen, it is fab).
> 
> A bit of background: this is set after series 1 as a sort of alternative series 2. I will however be adding in the characters from that series but probably with a different storyline. 
> 
> This probably won't make much sense without reading the first fic.  
> Enjoy!

Sherlock Holmes was tense.

It was in the carefully controlled faux-casual posture, in the way his eyes (and only his eyes) followed John as he moved from room to room, as if he was on an eternal deduction loop and the silence.  The silence which was slowly becoming suffocating.  He was never the most talkative man in the world, apart from when he was deducing ( _could never shut him up then,_ John often grumbled, fondly) but the quiet that had descended on the flat was unnerving.  
It has been 2 weeks since _that_ day.

2 weeks exactly in fact and things had been good.  Brilliant in fact.  Once they had finished what had turned into, a _very_ enthusiastic kiss, they'd walked home, Sherlock absently eating most of the contents of the plastic box.  He would have eaten all of them, until John joked that he would have to pay Mrs Hudson to become a full time cook, if that's all it took to get him to eat.  Of course, the mad detective snorted derisively and said that, obviously, Mrs Hudson would be offended if they didn't eat more than half and that it the quantity eaten did not reflect his enjoyment at the actual eating.  "Honestly John.  You're lucky that you have me to guide you or any manners of things could happen to you.”  
"Shut up," John said, playfully hitting his arm.  
"Make me," Sherlock shot back childishly. John had to smile.  He hadn’t expected (or wanted) Sherlock to change, especially after seeing his nervous skittish side.  It wasn’t that John was scared of dealing with it but more that it had left his detective vulnerable.  Although he would never admit it, his avoidance of the issue was like a neon sign.   
"Maybe I will." John gave Sherlock a sideways glance, in time to see the smirk shot his way.  Then they arrived home and John had begun to explore the several ways in which to make the Great Sherlock Holmes shut up altogether (though, if the smirking Mrs Hudson was any indication, quiet was a definition they’d have to work on). 

_Ahem_ , well yes, back to the present day.  Basically, as far as John was concerned, things were good. 

 

His fla- no wait, more than flatmates.  Boyfriend?  No, they weren’t twelve.  Partner?  No, they weren’t cowboys. 

John decided to put that question away for a while as he focused on his breakfast toast.  The simple fact was, Sherlock was keeping something from him and John didn’t like it.  Neither of them had brought up the topic of the wings.  Yet.  John had a million questions to ask but after several hints that either been deflected or downright ignored; he had the distinct impression that it wasn’t only reluctance to talk now but something Sherlock never wanted to talk about.  Ever. 

So, John had left the issue for a while.  He reasoned that it was better for Sherlock to initiate the discussion and if he never did, they would have to work around the giant pink elephant in the room.  The only problem in the foreseeable future was that the elephant was getting bigger, possibly branching out into ballet and dancing round the living room which was beginning to get difficult to ignore. 

“Right, what is it?” John whirled round to face Sherlock who was, as expected, staring into the kitchen, making it difficult to avoid John’s stare. 

“Your toast is done,” was the frustrating reply. 

“I know that-“

“Then why haven’t you done something with it?  Or are you hoping to conduct an experiment of your own?”  Sherlock’s voice was deceptively neutral; with a tinge of hope at the end ( _he actively encouraged the change of their flat into a laboratory and was disappointed when John wouldn’t join in_.)

“Sherlock, this isn’t about-“

“I don’t know what you might be trying to achieve; the toast will probably hold similar properties to bread-“

“Sherlock-“

“Perhaps I should experiment with other bread based items and see-“

“Sherlock!  This isn’t about the toast.”  The detective snapped out of his distracted musings, as if remembering he was part of a conversation rather than a monologue.  John withheld a sigh. 

“Look,” John walked up to the chair Sherlock was perched in and cupped his face, stroking those high cheekbones in a calming gesture.  “Tell me what’s wrong.  Don’t try and deny it,” he added quickly as Sherlock began to protest, “You’ve been looking anxious for 4 days now.  It’s been like living with a 6ft squirrel.” 

Sherlock huffed.  “I would not be a squirrel, John.  _You_ , on the other hand, are most definitely a hedgehog.” 

“Sherlock, I’m not getting into _that_ argument again, so stop trying to distract me, Otter.  I just want to help.”  Sherlock lifted his steely eyes up to John’s and John could see the internal sighing.  Then the world’s only consulting detective’s shoulders slumped, as he released the tension in them and rested his forehead on the top of John’s stomach, nuzzling into the woollen jumper.  John took this as an invitation to begin playing with his mess of curls and began running his fingers through it. 

 

He loved this.  This intimacy that was surprisingly easy with Sherlock who was usually so cold and distant.  He had however, promised not to tell anyone about the secret night time cuddling, though mainly because he would have to admit that Sherlock was capable of keeping him trapped in a cage of limbs, despite his skinny exterior. 

 

“John,” Sherlock sighed, his voice resigned.  It almost made John feel slightly guilty for forcing him to divulge.  But it was necessary.  “I’m not-“

 

“ _Ahem_.”  The muted cough could only have come from one person.  John expected Sherlock to be bolt upright in seconds, his posture set back, like nothing was happening.  However, it appeared that Sherlock was quite content to use John as a head rest and merely turned his head to ask “What do you want Mycroft?”

“I was hoping for a conversation with my dearest brother but if you two are _busy_ ,” Mycroft trailed off and John grinned as he glanced over his shoulder. 

“Mycroft I am perpetually busy.  You are just interrupting my schedule.  Now either stay and tell me what you want so I can tell you to leave again or go now and save us all the trouble.”

“Sherlock.  Behave,” John chastised, his grin having developed into smirking.  He reluctantly let go of the curls and made his way back into the kitchen to get his abandoned toast and tea.

“Always.”

Mycroft huffed to document his displeasure at the frankly ridiculous amount of domesticity that had invaded 221B.  John entertained the idea of going back and sitting on Sherlock’s lap, just to provoke a reaction in the older Holmes. 

But, upon his return, Sherlock and Mycroft were in the middle of a silent conversation and so he opted to lean on the fireplace instead.  It was close enough to break up a fight but not too much, as to distract.

“Finally something interesting.  You should be proud,” Sherlock quipped but with a look in his eyes that betrayed his genuine intrigue.

“So you’ll agree?” Mycroft sounded sceptical.  He was clutching onto a file of some sort, though John had no idea what was contained within it.  Sherlock remained still for a moment before nodding. 

“Excellent,” Mycroft handed over the file, somewhat reluctantly, “Do keep me informed of how your case is progressing.  I will attempt to be as resourceful as I can but it is made rather difficult when I do not have a clear indication of when I can be of use.” 

Sherlock made a non-committal grunt, skimming the notes lazily.  Mycroft looked to John who shrugged.  He wasn’t going to become Mycroft’s lap dog. 

The eldest Holmes exited soon after and John turned around to see Sherlock buried in the papers.  Clearly the relaxed attitude had been a front to irk his brother but now he had free rein to be as fascinated as he wanted.

“What’s this all about then?” John asked.  He didn’t really expect a reply.  The answering grin from Sherlock was unexpected.  So was the word that followed.

“Moriarty.”


	2. A Murder and the Mortuary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> In this chapter: Sherlock's point of view and a murder case
> 
> Warnings for: a tiny bit of gore and 1 case of swearing (both are really mild i think but I'm not sure so I thought I'd better warn you guys)
> 
> Unbeta'd so feel free to point out any mistakes 
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

If you asked Sherlock Holmes, he would emphatically state that he was _not_ avoiding John Watson.  That did not mean however that he was obliged to engage in any more conversation than was strictly necessary. 

For one, even before _that_ day, he didn’t feel the need to talk endlessly as some idiots did and preferred to bask in the peaceful silence obtain in 221B which allowed his mind to work at a much higher pace. 

For another, at this moment, he needed to think.  Moriarty was an enigma and, although more data was required to get anywhere near a coherent image, it was useful to keep the facts he already knew running through his brain, freeing up the chance to ponder theories and questions about his _fan_.  The third ( _and most important_ ) reason was John. 

 

John wanted to talk.  No, John was _desperate_ to talk.  Sherlock had not been blind to the hints and prompts thrown his way.  John had questions and comments and theories and although Sherlock normally would love for his doctor to be inquisitive, but about this topic?  Sherlock would genuinely like John to forget about his wing confession altogether. 

There were reasons he had run and there were reasons for his secrets.  The barrier he had set up around his emotions not only stopped people from getting _in_ , but prevented parts of him from getting _out_.  Obviously John had to be the exception, sneaking in and taking hold.  The only problem was that because John had already infiltrated his heart, it was becoming increasingly difficult for his head to hide anything.  This logic led Sherlock to the idea that if he just stopped talking, then no secrets will be able to crawl out unbidden and destroy everything.

 

This turned Sherlock’s brain onto Problem with John, Number 2.  Well, it wasn’t exactly a problem with John per say, more of a problem that pertained to John.  You see Sherlock had never trusted someone this much before.  Certainly not his family, friends were practically nonexistent and that only left Mrs Hudson who was untrustworthy as soon as she got together with Mrs Turner from next door.  So, all of these untrained feelings were suddenly being poured at John and _that,_ that was terrifying.   Terrifying because, and Sherlock was fairly certain of this, if John found out his true nature, why his wings were the way they were, why _he_ was the way he was, John would leave and that would be the end.  Sherlock was sure that he wouldn’t be able to cope without John there; he was his guide and his friend, his blogger and his soldier.  His world had found a new centre point, John’s gravitational pull making it impossible to escape and without his gravity, Sherlock would fall.  So Sherlock did what his brain told him to do, what it always told him to do when confronted with something unprecedented.  He paused, he observed and he waited.

 

But even this wasn’t enough when confronted with the full power of John Watson and his ability to coax whatever he damn well pleased out of a certain consulting detective ( _he had soon worked out that Sherlock was essentially a 6ft tall cat and that his hair was a major weak point_ ).  This was why Sherlock was torn between growling in frustration and sighing in relief at Mycroft’s sudden appearance, stalling his confession. 

 

However, Mycroft had brought all of the information he could attain on Moriarty and that in itself was fascinating and infuriating.  Fascinating because of how well Moriarty had managed to bury himself, only having vague links to attach him to various crimes, spanning across most of the world.  Infuriating because it was essentially nothing, not even a small thread that was clear enough for Sherlock to get hold of and run with until he had tracked Moriarty down and picked him apart.  The papers did hold a small silver lining.  John had recognised Sherlock’s immersion into the data (his ‘mind palace’ phase) and had left him to it, sitting quietly on his laptop and putting all questions aside for now.  Sherlock knew that John, although he couldn’t be as invested as himself, did have an interest in this elusive enigma, had done since he’d shot that taxi driver and the name hunt had begun.  Sherlock had quickly noted that, since that date, Moriarty’s activities had become even more secretive, almost disappearing completely, although Sherlock didn’t doubt that his linked crimes were still numerous.  He didn’t delude himself into thinking that Moriarty would just appear or would be caught.  Moriarty wanted a game and he wanted Sherlock to play.  That much was obvious; the rest remained to be seen. 

 

###

 

It was almost a relief when Lestrade appeared looking as flustered as usual.  He heard John exchange pleasantries and then Lestrade turned to him.  

“Sherlock.  We need your help.”  Sherlock often wondered why the DI always sounded so put out by the admittance.  It wasn’t like it was an unusual occurrence and if Lestrade couldn’t solve it, Sherlock doubted anyone else could.  He refused to work with anyone that was second best and Lestrade was the most competent he could find. 

 

“So far, so obvious.  What is it?”  He asked without looking up from the papers strewn over the table and most of the floor.

 

“Man in his 30s found in his home at Blackwood Crescent.  Looks like a regular robbery gone wrong and I would have gone with that if it wasn’t for the exact same thing happening last week.  It looks like the work of the same guy.”

 

“Do you have any photos?”  He wasn’t going gallivanting around London on a hunch unless it was at least an 8 this time.  He needed more time to work on Moriarty. 

 

“Got a few but it would be better if you just came down to the scene,” Lestrade huffed as Sherlock extended his hand and he began examining the contents of the folder.  John and Lestrade were muttering behind him but he ignored them as he started flicking through the pictures.

He could see where Lestrade’s inference had come from.  The way the body had been positioned and the general chaos surrounding it was like a neon sign.  There were pictures from the other murders as well; another man and a woman, also in their 30s.  A serial robber with an unlucky streak?  That didn’t explain the uniformity or the frequency.  All of them looked vaguely similar; the blonde hair and the height, even the clothes.  Pre planned targets and a particular type of target too.  He was about to ask about the backgrounds of the 3 people when Lestrade spoke.

“Oh and they were all clinging onto these.  Didn’t know whether it was entirely relevant but it was certain to pique your interest and we really need your help.”  He produced 3 sealed plastic bags.  Each contained a simple necklace, black string with a small pendant.  Each charm was different but it was clear that the necklaces were part of the same design. 

 

Sherlock could feel his body tense and stomach start to coil as he took the bags, studying each on carefully and then looking back at the photographs.  It was obvious, now he knew what to look for.

 

“Where is the body now?”  Sherlock finally looked directly at Lestrade.

 

“We moved him down to the morgue about an hour ago.  You’ll take the case then?”  He sounded hopeful, as if it wasn’t clear that Sherlock would agree.

 

“Yes.  Go back to the crime scene and clear everyone out, there’s nothing in there of use.  Get any information you can on the victim’s families and friends.  Find them out for the other two as well.  We need to go to the morgue,” he directed the final sentence at John who nodded.  Lestrade disappeared back down stairs and John went upstairs, getting his shoes.  Sherlock was up and grabbing his coat in a few seconds, leaving everything behind but the folder of photos.  He sent a quick text to Mycroft detailing the situation.  It pained him to have to involve his brother but as this was linked to him and he had the resources to combat it, it seemed necessary to inform him.  Then John was by his side and they were on their way.

 

###

 

The morgue held its usual sterile silence and, as Molly had actual work to attend to, they were left alone with the body, after promising not to do anything to it without explicit permission.  Sherlock began to quickly examine the body but he was on auto-pilot.  The body held a few bruises and cuts but the fatal wound was clearly evident; the blood had created a scarlet ribbon around the man’s throat that was like a signpost.  Simple.  Effective.  Far too neat to be a simple accident. 

 

“So what are we doing here?”  John asked from the other side of the body as he watched Sherlock. 

 

“Research.”  It wasn’t a lie.

 

“About?”

 

“The murderer.”  That was a lie.  He was fairly certain he knew who the main culprit was, however indirectly he could be linked.  Moriarty strikes again.  John fell silent for a moment, with his thinking face on.  Sherlock had to suppress a grin.  He was nowhere near Sherlock level but John did have moments of insight that, however wrong, always seemed to point in the right direction. 

 

“What’s with the necklaces?  You seemed to be pretty interested in them earlier.”  Ah.  Sometimes _too_ insightful. 

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Sherlock, answer me.”

 

“Sherlock!”

 

“Yes John?” 

 

“Are you ignoring the question?”  Sherlock bit back an answer about obvious questions leading to obvious answers.  As he glance up from where he was taking an unusual amount of interest in the victims left foot, he could see that John was beginning to shift from agitation to outright anger.  His hands were balled into fists at his side and his face was suspiciously blank. 

 

“Sherlock you’ve been ignoring my questions all week and I’m starting to get sick of it.  Now you won’t even let me help on a case.  What’s wrong with you?”

 

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” Sherlock replied incredulously, though he was starting to feel slightly anxious on the inside. 

 

“Sherlock that’s bullshit and you know it is.  You were going to tell me earlier.”  Sherlock simply didn’t answer.  He couldn’t deny it and yet he didn’t want to talk about it, especially not here.  He heard John sigh and the sound of feet.  But instead of moving closer to him, as expected, they were moving away, towards the door.

 

“Where are you going?” he asked.

 

“Oh so he _can_ speak.  Well, as you appear to think I’m not going to be useful on this case as you haven’t started your usual deduction spree yet, I’m going home.”  They stared at each other for a moment, John hanging on the door, Sherlock by the victim’s feet.  Sherlock knew that now it was time to decide, to say everything or nothing.  As the silence hung on, John sighed and shook his head.  Then he disappeared out the door and Sherlock was frozen. 

 

He should probably run after John, tell him that he would explain everything, whatever he wanted to know, so long as he didn’t leave.  But Sherlock couldn’t and so he wouldn’t.  He turned back to body. 

 

He lifted up it ever so slightly to get a look at the back.  There he found his confirmation.  The faint imprint of wings was tattooed black against the skin, detailed in a beautiful pattern. 

 

Sherlock sent another text to Mycroft.

 

**Confirmation acquired- Moriarty’s targeting the Angels-SH**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always appreciated and all copyright goes to those who deserve it


	3. A Chat and an Old friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me a bit longer to upload this, RL got kind of busy for a moment.  
> I hope this chapter makes up for it though as we see the return of motherly Mrs Hudson and an old friend of Sherlock's appears.  
> Feel free to comment and offer constructive criticism, I'd love to know what people are thinking.   
> Thanks!

John Watson was pissed off and (according to himself), fully in his rights to be.  He didn’t care that Sherlock had a case and didn’t truly care that he didn’t want to talk because John knew that the aforementioned case always comes first and that emotions were never going to be Sherlock’s strong point.  But when that gets in the way of even the most ordinary tasks like understanding the case better (and yes, John was fully aware that normal people didn’t include murder in their ordinary tasks lists but it was a fact of life when it came to Sherlock).

  On cases, he was the Blogger, first and foremost and if _he_ didn’t understand what was going on, how was he supposed to tell everyone else?  It was rare that he worked himself up into what was most definitely a stand for his rights as chief blogger (and was most emphatically _not_ a sulk) but Sherlock was known for pushing boundaries. 

 

John was so wrapped up in his self-righteous thoughts that when he arrived at the flats, he didn’t notice, the short figure stood in the doorway to 221 A until it spoke, its voice touched with concern. 

“Are you alright dear?”  John spun round, only to be faced with a worried looking Mrs Hudson.

“Oh, yes thanks.  Sherlock’s, just,” John gestured vaguely to the doorway, “and I’m, well, I’m here.”  He gestured around himself, though he couldn’t say exactly why he felt the need to.  Clearly Mrs Hudson could see right through him. 

“John we are going to have to work on your acting abilities.  Now get yourself in here, I’ll make you some tea and you can tell me all about it.”

 

Neither John, nor Sherlock fully understood Mrs Hudson mystical skills of coaxing people into divulging their secrets.  It appeared that, one minute you could be stood, minding your own business and the next, you were situated in a cosy flat, at the rickety kitchen table, discussing anything from the next door neighbour’s not-so-secret affair, to the political situation in some far flung corner of the world.  It didn’t seem to matter the topic, Mrs Hudson was well versed in practically every subject you could name.  She deemed it safer to live with a Sherlock she could sometimes understand and help, even if he was a handful at times, than a Sherlock who turned into a recluse and wouldn’t talk to her at all.  It allowed her to keep an eye on him, though with John there it didn’t matter as much. 

 

However, both boys agreed that it was at that point, the general topics discussion, that she had you.  There was no escape, once you had begun talking, as Mrs Hudson was always able to steer the conversation towards your own problems, even the problems you didn’t realise you were having or didn’t want to admit too.

 

So, this was how John Watson found himself with a cup of tea, a plate of scones and an inquisitive Mrs Hudson in front of him, without quite realising how he had gotten there.  Mrs Hudson did not miss the fact that he was also, unwittingly, in the same chair that Sherlock had been in, all those weeks ago. 

 

“Right.  Tell me what’s wrong,” Mrs Hudson instructed, picking up her tea.  It was not a tone of voice that was willing to be argued with.  However this didn’t stop John from trying.

 

“I’ve told you.  Everything’s fine,” he said, using his patented doctor-calming voice.   Mrs Hudson lifted an eyebrow and simply stared.  She had learnt a few tricks from her lanky idiot of a detective and one of these was that silence often led to people trying to fill it, usually with the information you were looking for. 

 

“Seriously.  I just fancied coming home early.”  Mrs Hudson’s expression was now verging on pity.  John looked down at his tea, unwilling to meet her eyes.  He began weighing up the merits of telling her.  She had known Sherlock for a long time and might be able to shed some more light on the situation.  But she was the landlady and it was personal and they were grown men for god’s sake!  They should be able to work this out by themselves.

 

“Okay, maybe there are some small issues but there isn’t anything that you have to concern yourself with.  I’m a big boy, I can look after myself.”  He smiled at her but, although her expression softened, she looked far from convinced.

“Dear, I’ve known that idiot genius for many years now and one thing he is very, very good at is annoying people, _especially_ the people he cares about.  Now, he must have said something to get you in this state and I am trying to help you both out of it.”

“Mrs Hudson, I am not in a state.”

“I know a state when I see one.”

“Well then you will see I am not in one.”

She stared at him and John realised for the first time where Sherlock learnt his ‘You’re an idiot’ glare from.

“Okay, okay, I give in,” John paused, intently looking down into his tea, as if it held the answers.  He decided to begin anyway.  “It’s not really what he’s said but what his isn’t saying.  He’s worrying about something and has been in one of his silent moods again but he won’t tell me what’s going on and ignores me when I try to help.  It’s so frustrating and I don’t know what to do next.”

Mrs Hudson looked at him.  She wondered at how two boys (they were all boys to her) who could be genuinely quite clever at times and sometimes remarkably perceptive could be such colossal idiots when it came to each other. 

“John, have you ever thought about asking _why_ he can’t tell you?”  

The silence was more telling than any words could be.  “Because I think you should.  As far as I know, Sherlock has never experienced a relationship like this before and, from what you’ve said, it sounds like it’s scaring him.”

John was sat, slightly stunned.  Of course Sherlock would be more controlled when he was scared.  It was his security blanket against the world, a smooth logic that no one could take away.  Now he had realised it, the more obvious it became.  _You see but do not observe._

 

But Mrs Hudson hadn’t finished.  “Now, I’m going to tell you what to do.  You are going to go and find your detective.  You are going to apologise for having a fit.  You are going to reassure him that you are going to be there for him.  Hopefully he will take this and deem it appropriate to give you an apology back.  Then you are both going to solve this case he’s got and after you two can have your domestic while I am there to help.  Clear?”

 

John grinned and gave her a mock salute.  “Yes ma’am.” 

 

“Good.  Now get going you.”  She bustled him out of the flat and onto the street.  As he walked away, she allowed herself an indulgent smile.  She often despaired at the pair of them, at the bullet holes in the wall and the things in the fridge and the general destruction of what was technically _her_ property but somehow that didn’t matter at all when she was helping her lost boys on their way.  Oh her lost boys...

####

Unbeknownst to John, Sherlock had left the morgue some time ago.  After his text to Mycroft, he decided that he needed more assistance in this delicate matter.  If Moriarty was targeting Angels it had huge implications, not only for their kind but also everyone else.  It meant that Moriarty knew and would most likely have guessed of Sherlock’s link to them and Mycroft’s as well, putting the brothers in more danger than before and gave power to Moriarty that they couldn’t afford to lose.  If even a whisper got out, even if it was passed off as rubbish by the general population, it would mean that Angels and their kin would be forced into greater hiding, for protection purposes. 

So Sherlock went to go find the one person who would know what to do next.

 

He knocked at the black door which led into a sleek townhouse.  The street was quiet and unassuming but was obviously an area that oozed wealth.  The few cars lining the street were all models that could buy a decent sized flat, if not a small house each.  The door opened slightly and, with a knowing grin, an auburn woman escorted him through to a living room.

 

“Miss Adler.”

 

“Sherlock Holmes,” said the woman curled up in a chair in front of him, clearly unsurprised by his sudden arrival, “we meet again.”

 

She was naked ( _her battle armour, if he remembered correctly_ ) but had leant forward to affect a false air of modesty with her make-up pristinely done and her black curls done up in a misleadingly messy bun.  Her wings were folded around her also, brown framed with black.  She was no angel, not anymore, but the darkness hadn’t taken her quite yet, a fact for which Sherlock was grateful.  He wouldn’t reveal his wings to her, although it was seen as disrespectful not to.  Sherlock had his reasons and, unfortunately, Miss Adler knew all.  

 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?  Trouble with your toy boy?”   She smirked at his blank expression and took the coat he offered. 

 

“My relationship has nothing to do with you.  You should already know why I’m here, or have you been pushed out of the loop already?”

 

“Calm yourself.  They couldn’t keep me out if they tried.  I’m _valuable_.”  She rolled the last word around her tongue, as if tasting it.  Sherlock knew she was valuable; that was her problem as well as her strength.

 

“I got the text from your brother a few minutes ago,” she picked up her phone from the nearby table, “I would have thought he would be more subtle to be honest.  Rather shows your hand.”

 

“And indirectly yours.”  He allowed himself a smirk as Irene almost grimaced, before pulling her expression back together.

 

“You know I need this protection.  If Moriarty knows your after him-“

 

“How do you know about Moriarty?  Mycroft only sent out the warning message, he didn’t say what for.”  Sherlock’s suspicions were raised higher than even their normal levels.  He intrinsically didn’t allow Irene any closer than strictly necessary but he needed to be able to trust her now, with the information that she already had.  If Moriarty had already got to her, then he had lost an insider within the angelic community and couldn’t have anymore contact with her, until she had proven her allegiance.  This made the lack of tells go from a mere annoyance, to a liability.  Still, the puzzle she presented wouldn’t hold him back for long, probably only until he had eradicated Moriarty. 

 

“You’re not the only one to have noticed a shift in power recently.  There’s been talk.  A new boss has come into play and boy, he is good.  Some say he’s even better than you.”  Sherlock brushed off the last comment.  If she wanted more information, then goading him wouldn’t work.  She would have to use the more conventional means of asking, if only for his pleasure at saying no. 

 

She sighed at his lack of response.  “What do you want from me, Sherlock?  I can only help you so far in this one.”  Self-preservation was her main objective and Sherlock knew about her limits. 

 

“Information.  Anything you can dig up about Moriarty that an official inquiry couldn’t.  Names, numbers, places.  We’re going to need everything we can get.”

 

She regarded him for a moment before nodding.  “I’ll see what I can do.  Now darling, tell me all about your boy troubles,” she leant back in her chair with a smug expression, Sherlock’s coat folded tightly around her.  Thankfully, Sherlock’s text alert went off (he’d had the good sense to take his phone out of his coat pocket before handing it over).  As he read the text, although outwardly there was no difference, both pairs of eyes narrowed slightly in curiosity as Sherlock processed the information.

 

“Fancy a case?”  He announced, raising an eyebrow.

She smiled, for the first time genuinely.  “Love one but it wasn’t really a question, now was it?”

“You need to see what we’re working with.  Now seems like an opportunity.  Now go get some clothes on.  You can’t just arrive in my coat.”

“When did you begin to care what anyone else thinks?  Your John turning you soft?”  She pondered as she sauntered out the door and up the stairs, leaving Sherlock to wonder much the same question.  But he didn’t have time to think about that now.  Another murder had just appeared and the game was most defiantly _on_. 


	4. Pushed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shorter chapter: John meets Irene and jealousy ensues. Hope you enjoy and feel free to tell me what you think :)

John hadn’t gotten far retracing his steps when Lestrade texted an address and a plea to get Sherlock there as soon as possible.

**Just trying to look for Sherlock. We got split up. Try texting him?- JW**

It wasn’t lying, more of an omission of certain facts (which defiantly didn’t need to be spread around the Yard).

**Okay. Get here for when his majesty arrives- GL**

John decided to hurry over. A crime scene was the closest thing to neutral ground and John would actually be able to show that he was over whatever had happened at the morgue. He didn't worry that Sherlock wouldn't appear; he could never avoid a good serial killing but John sent a text anyway. It would be good to re-establish some contact before the awkwardness of meeting face to face. The curt reply he received wasn't unusual for Sherlock on a case but it still stung slightly, like he was being dismissed rather than reassured.

He arrived before Sherlock did and so went to find Lestrade. This time the body had been dumped in an alleyway and probably wouldn't have been found until much later if the woman running the shop next to it hadn't forgotten her keys, meaning she had to use the back door. There she met her gruesome discovery.

"What do we know?" John asked as Greg waved him past the tape line.  
"Not much. Male in his 30s again. No form of ID on him but he did have one of those necklaces. We're starting to suspect a cult of some kind. Maybe Sherlock can be more illuminating on who or what is going on. He seemed to have a pretty good idea earlier."

"He can catch you a killer at least," John grinned. Sherlock rarely bothered to tell the Yard the full details until the killer was actually in custody, a fact that annoyed people like Donavon.  
"What if he gets it wrong? How are you going to explain that to the poor sod who's just been arrested? Oh yes sorry for the inconvenience, we just let random civilians walk around the crime scene and go from there," she often argued. Lestrade could only shrug and reply "He hasn't been wrong so far."

Before John could ask any further questions a taxi pulled up on the street opposite and both he and Lestrade turned to see the Detective sweep out. However, instead of turning to them immediately, he waited by his door until-  
John froze and pretended to ignore Lestrade’s sideways glance at him. He carefully controlled his expression, Sherlock style, suppressing the mixture of shock and anger.

The woman who was now following Sherlock to the crime scene was beautiful. She was made of grace and was all angles with the dark hair and pale skin of Sherlock but with a calculated seductive element to the red lips and cat-like walk. She was simply dressed; creamy white dress, black coat and inappropriate high heels (Sherlock would have only given her minor details, she wouldn’t have known they were coming to a crime scene, John guessed. Hoped.). It was obvious she was dangerous even from the distance and that she knew how to use it to her advantage. John's protective urges kicked in but he held himself back, curious as to who this woman was, what the hell she was doing here and what she was doing with _his_ Sherlock.

"Sherlock this isn't a show and tell session. It was bad enough letting you and John in but at least I can explain you two, to a certain extent," Lestrade stated folded his arms to make himself seem more in control.

Sherlock, of course, took no notice. "Lestrade, this is Irene Adler. She may be useful in this case and I want her to look at the body. Irene, this is Lestrade, the only tolerable DI in London and John Watson. He's my-" Sherlock looked at John, seeming to struggle to find the words but Irene quickly intercepted.

"Oh don't worry I've heard _all_ about him," she smiled as if that was somehow amusing rather than intrusive ( _and slightly embarrassing, although John didn’t quite know why, perhaps because Sherlock didn’t even know what to call him_ ) and she shook their hands. "Now I heard there was a crime scene around here. You wouldn’t mind if I take a look, now would you?" She arched an eyebrow at Lestrade before peering round him into the alley. When Lestrade didn’t answer, possibly because he was dazed from being addressed directly by the sultry voice, Sherlock swept past him, with her directly behind.

John made to march after them but Lestrade stopped him.

“Do you know her?” he asked, incredulously.

“I’ve never seen her before in my life.” John replied but his eyes were glued to the two now hovering near the body. It was unsettling, seeing someone in what should have been _his_ place and a stranger too.

“Are you okay with that?” In his peripheral vision, John could see Lestrade staring at him. He looked concerned and wary, as if unsure how to respond.

The DI was one of the few people they had confined in about their relationship, not really wanting any fuss over it. It didn’t change who they were or what they did. In fact, John had realised why people had been constantly hinting about them being a them when he realised that there were only a few minor adjustments to their lives after, well after. They’d shared so much in their lives.

But now, now there was this Woman. Irene. John knew there wasn’t any basis for his hostility. He had friends and some of those friends happened to be female. It wasn’t that revolutionary. This was Sherlock, however. Sherlock who claimed to not have friends.

So that begged the question, who was she? School friend who had lost contact? Unlikely. Sherlock had never mentioned school in any way, other than to remark how hateful and boring it was. University maybe? No, Sebastian had been adamant that Sherlock was unwelcome and alone. An ex? John looked at them. They seemed to work together smoothly and Irene stood too close and used too much physical contact for it to be a solely friendly gesture. She also seemed to be talking, hypothesising with Sherlock, nodding in agreement at other times. What history did they have, that she knew his deduction pattern? Adler also hadn’t divulged any information on who she really was, what she did, why she was here. Sherlock thought she might be helpful but how much did he _really_ know? She appeared to be surprising him, not visible to most people but it was there, in the quirk of his lips when she pointed to something. In summary: a gorgeous, flirty puzzle who could keep up (or appeared to keep up) with Sherlock’s racing mind.

  
“No. I’m not alright with that. In fact,” John gave the couple one last look before turning back to Lestrade, “as seen as I’m not really needed today, I might head back home. I’ve got stuff I need to do anyway. You don’t mind looking after him, do you?”

“No, course not. I’ll drop you a text if anything happens but John,” he said to his retreating friend who turned back for a moment. “Talk to him, alright? Hear him out, you know. He’s probably got some weird explanation.” John nodded, though he didn’t look fully convinced and then walked away, probably going to hail a taxi. He watched him turn the corner, disappearing from view before going over to the victim to see what Sherlock and his, unlikely companion had to say.

John was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice his friend’s fretful look or indeed any of his surroundings. His main focus was to just get out of there, before he did something stupid, to get away from this now apparent rival. This was why he didn’t notice the van that was parked up next to him. This was why he didn’t notice the two men waking close behind him. This was why he only realised too late; the blow to his head sent him falling into unconsciousness.

_Sherlock_ , he though and then, nothing.


	5. Trapped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a big chapter this time and Sherlock's PoV, with a bit of Irene background and some minor casework.  
> Kudos and comments are, as ever, appreciated :)

Sherlock hadn’t thought of about how John would react to Irene. They were never supposed to meet, to be separate sections of his life. A simple divider in his mind palace.   
His main focus was the case and, as John’s services as assistant were, to Sherlock’s mind, unattainable, he chose Irene instead; a poor imitation but a necessary one. The details of the case were shouting in his brain, wanting to be linked up into a calm melody of reason. He didn’t really need to see this body; the others had provided sufficient information for a simple enough hypothesis. However, he hadn’t been lying on that first case with John ( _John, serial killer, cabby, shot, hero, help, talk, angels, NOT NOW_ ). The trick with a serial killer was to wait until a mistake presented itself, a piece that didn’t quite fit pattern. There you had your evidence and could wrench the rest of the puzzle out. It didn’t usually take long unless they were good but there was still the pause in between, the tense moments until the phone rang to tell them that the game was still in play and the killer could be caught. He hoped that this was that phone call.

When the taxi pulled up on the small street that led to the alleyway, to see John stood there, patiently waiting with Lestrade, temporarily froze the chaos as Sherlock’s mind produced only a few words. _He’s here. He came back._   
Of course the tumult continued after a few moments. _Of course he’s here. He never went anywhere. Stupid sentiment. Anyway, it’s John, John doesn’t miss cases, at least, not the important ones. It’s one of the features you adore about him, his dependability, his loyalty, his- FOCUS_. Finish case, then talk to John.

While the brilliant mind temporarily rebooted, it failed to notice was that Irene was taking an interest in John too.   
“That’s your John.” It was a statement rather than a question but it caused him to pause for a second time ( _which was genuinely starting to annoy him, how was he supposed to work with these distractions?_ ). A quick glance at Irene showed that her she were surveying John carefully. A part of him was irritated, ( _Irene shouldn’t be anywhere near John_ ), the other part curious, wanting to see how the dominatrix handled the stubborn ex- army captain. 

“He’s cute.”

That was not the reaction he had been expecting. He turned to look at her more fully but she merely smiled. “Shouldn’t we be going? You promised me a crime scene.”  
Sherlock nodded and climbed out. The data was irrelevant anyway; Irene’s opinion of John didn’t matter in the slightest. John’s opinion of Irene however...

  
He’d never realised how quickly the doctor’s expression could change. The flicker from relief with a hint of nerves to a blank screen, hiding his anger, took seconds.   
“Oh,” Irene murmured, “You didn’t tell them about me, did you? Well, this is going to be a fun introduction.”

Sherlock tried to keep it short and avoided looking at John, trying to get under the crime scene tape as quickly as possible. John would provide too much of a distraction at this point and this could be their only way of evidencing this case. Luckily Irene seemed to be more interested in the case than she let on and so didn’t stop to tease as feared.

The body was much the same as the others, the appearance, the injuries, the necklace and charm. But there was _something_ , something wrong.

“I wasn’t wrong, was I? What I said about you two? You are having an argument.”

Sherlock had never believed in a higher power capable of granting sponatneous wishes but if had done then he was reaching the stage of bargaining with it for a bit of time to simply _think_.

“Irene, let us get this clear. You are here to perform one purpose, namely that of confirming what I see. I am not discussing my personal life with you, not now, not in the future. Now tell me, what do you see?”   
She didn’t appear surprised by the brush off but turned her attention to the alleyway. They fell into their own, old, disjointed pattern.

Before John but after the drugs, Lestrade would sometimes let him on minor cases and that had been thrilling for a while, until he’d quickly annoyed and aggravated every team member the force could throw at him. It was just before he was going to be banned indefinitely that he met Irene.   
He had been pacing the streets thinking about why the sister’s alibi didn’t fit with the cousins and pointedly ignoring the part of his brain that said that a small amount of heroin would solve this problem much more quickly when he walked directly into her, sending them both sprawling across the floor.   
“Hey, watch it” she yelled before looking at him and adding, “Oh, it’s you.”

“What?” Sherlock asked picking himself up off the floor. She scrambled up after him.   
“You. The one that’s been helping all the ones down on Breston Avenue.”   
Breston Avenue was where his homeless network had originated from, mainly because it was within walking distance from his old flat. He stared at the girl in front of him. No, woman in front of him, about his own age in fact but designed to look younger and so more vulnerable. Unassuming.   
“I am.” He turned to go, already bored. She would probably try and give him a message telling him that they were dangerous and violent (a negligible threat in Sherlock’s experience), trying to be helpful and a good citizen and whatever else normal people had to be.   
“Looking for another one? I hear you’ve been getting yourself into trouble. I could help you out with that.”   
He still remembered that first time he’d caught a glimpse of the danger and the manipulation hidden behind the crafted smile.

She didn’t call herself Irene at that point, preferring to keep herself private and coupled with Sherlock’s inability to care who she was or what she did, they banded together. Irene agreed to go with him on cases under the name ‘Cathy’ and Sherlock would get her connections, either through the homeless network (much smaller back then but infinitely quicker than the police) or through his own criminal connections. It wasn’t a perfect partnership, based on bargaining and power play, who could get the most out of the deal while putting the least in. But Sherlock reasoned it was better than nothing.   
He’d seen her wings accidently. He’d burst through the doorway to her small bedsit she’d gained through possible illegal means, to be faced with a pair of pale brown wings slashed with black. She’d been furious with him for weeks, at first for seeing them at all, second because he had failed to mention his own wings. It had almost hurt to see the colour darken, a sign of her turning but as long as she stayed away from true black the darkness couldn’t take her completely.   
Then 4 years before John she’s disappeared. It was only through a serious side-investigation that he’d tracked her to the town house, to her new name, to her new life. They’d kept in quiet contact, never overtly but just enough to know where each other was.   
He was disappointed but not surprised by Lestrade’s lack of recognition. She had looked a lot younger before, always opting for a care-worn purple jacket and trainers and blonde hair and acted younger; her appearance and attitude had had a dramatic overhaul.

This was their first case she had been on since her disappearance.

He was pleased to see that her skills had not diminished and had even slightly improved since. She too could tell something was wrong but it was only when they went round to see the back that a piece clicked.   
“Those scars,” Irene began and Sherlock let her continue, hoping that she would piece it together for herself. “They weren’t found on the others, you mentioned you could see the designs but these ones have been slashed out. It’s been moved?. But why?” She looked at him and he graced her with a quirk of the lips. 

“A decent question. They will have known that the police were following them by now hence the rarely used alleyway but the way the body’s positioned suggests pre planning. Look at the limbs, displaying the back and throat. Doesn’t it seem a little coincidental that the woman who found him just happened to forget their keys just a few hours after a murder victim appears? So they wanted this body to be found specifically by the police but didn’t want to draw attention so used a secluded spot.” It was why? Did they want the police to know they knew? Was it a warning message? Or perhaps a showing off, a look-what-I-can-do.  
“Not just the police,” Irene said looking at him, “By you, you specifically.” The other piece clicked. 

“You think this is a trap?” Why did she- Oh. Obvious. It was subtly done but now that he was looking from that perspective it was clear that the scene was set up. He couldn’t help but think petulantly that he would have noticed earlier if John had been there but he had stayed back with Lestrade. That was odd in itself, he was usually eager to hear the deductive process and his appearance at the crime scene seemed like a truce. He needed him now; he needed him to make some banal suggestion that would lead to the answer, he- he wasn’t there. 

He wasn’t there.

“Lestrade. Where’s John?” he shouted to the detective who was currently talking to someone unimportant. 

“He left about 15 minutes ago, said he was going home. Why? Hey, Sherlock!”

A trap. A trap for him. That didn’t specify he was the one being trapped. 

Sherlock felt a fluttering in his stomach, like something was trying to get out. It was beginning to claw at him. He refused to let it out.  
“Sherlock, where are you going?” Lestrade caught up to him as he was going to turn the corner. Left or right? 

“We’re going to find John, we think he’s been taken,” Irene answered, appearing by his left shoulder. Left was the way home but now she was blocking the way.

“Something to do with the case?” Didn’t they realise John was in trouble?

“We think so.” Why were they wasting time?

“Fine. Let’s go. Donovan, you clear up here.” Excellent. Wait, what?

“I don’t need both of you to follow me,” he muttered as they made their way down the small street.

“John could be anywhere,” Irene began before Lestrade interrupted. 

“Well we only think that he’s been taken, he could be fine and we’re all worrying for nothing-“

Sherlock’s text alert went off.

“Not just a thought anymore.”

He stopped walking. 2 sets of eyes turned to look at him. He handed the phone to Lestrade (never trust Irene with a phone).   
There was a photo of John tied up in the back of a van. He appeared to be unconscious but unharmed, as far as they could see. Underneath was some text, an address and: 

**Come and Play- JM**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, sorry about another cliffhanger (i'm not that sorry, they're so fun to write) :)


	6. Meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi :)  
> Sorry if this chapter is utter crap but I haven't had the opportunity to read through it properly (RL keeps getting in the way!) and so tell me if there are any grievous errors, though I may go back and change this chapter anyway.
> 
> So, I hope this is okay: John wakes up and meddling is to be had...

John’s first thoughts were of the throbbing pain in the back of his head. He wasn’t quite sure why it was hurting but he didn’t really care. All he wanted was for it to stop so he could concentrate on something else. Something else, like the ache in his arms. His arms that were at an odd angle, pulled tight behind his back. Surely he wasn’t sleeping like that? Experimentally, he attempted to gently move them but was met with resistance. Handcuffs? Or maybe zip tags? He couldn’t make out the material, his mind only focusing on the pain radiating from his body and a rising sense of panic as he fully began to appreciate his situation.   
He was being held somewhere.   
He needed to get out.  
His soldier training kicked in and he relaxed his tense muscles, hoping that his captors hadn’t noticed his earlier movement, allowing him time to work out what was happening. He ran through the key information he needed.  
He needed to work out where he was.  
He needed to know who had taken him.  
He needed to know why they had taken him.  
His mind helpfully suggested an answer to the last question. His life had grown substantially better and exciting when Sherlock had burst into it but so had his chances of him being kidnapped, hurt, threatened and/or prosecuted for Anti Social Behaviour. There was a fairly high chance that Sherlock and his newest case had something to do with his capture _(if only he could remember what the case was about, dammit. It’s like his brain had blanked it out, purposely trying to confuse him.)_

His heart tugged a little when he thought of Sherlock. Had he been taken as well? Did he need rescuing? Did he realise John had disappeared? Was he looking for him? Was he okay?  
John quickly shut off the stream of questions. There wasn’t time for strong emotions.   
He needed to be more like Sherlock.  
He needed to concentrate on the getting the facts.  
So the top 2 questions ( _who and where._ )   
Sherlock had been working a case but they hadn’t been together for the last bit. They’d fallen out over something, something that was meaningful to him because he’s left Sherlock on a case on his own and that never happened, no matter how angry he got. So he’d gone home? Yes, home, to the taste of tea and the smell of cake and Mrs Hudson’s kind but serious words. Then he was out of the door again. A text. But from who? Lestrade, a text from Lestrade, about the case. The body in the alleyway. The taxi. The woman.

The Woman.

  
He could see her, as if she was in front of him now; her beauty as deadly as it was enthralling. He could feel his mistrust, his jealousy, seeping out of every pore, his need to get Sherlock away spiking but alas, Sherlock did not want to be saved. His need to run took priority, as he saw all too easily his replacement stepping in, punishment for his earlier grievances. Then he was saying goodbye to Greg, was walking away and then...  
Then the blackness.   
But no, there was a bit before, a van rolling up. A pre planned attack then? A bit afterwards, one moment of consciousness, deep, growled voices and blurred vision causing his senses to overload and crash once more.   
And now here he was.   
As it was highly unlikely he would remember anymore, he decided to open his eyes slightly, just to assess his surroundings.   
The bright light assaulted his eyes the minute they were open, causing him to flinch and shut them tight again. Even with them closed, he could still see the glow on his eyelids.   
This was clearly going to take some time.  
###

Sherlock was not entirely sure how he had ended up in one of his brother’s sleek, black car with the pompous interfering git sat facing him, the bemused Detective Inspector sat across from him (to the Whale’s left) and Irene sat in the space that would usually be, should rightfully be John’s place; at his side.   
He remembered being stood on the pavement, his 2 companion reeling from the contrastingly horrifying yet intriguing text. He blanked out their background noise to a buzz, their squawking being a hindrance on his cognitive ability. But as his mind began sketching out the quickest route to the location he had been given, he heard the roll of tyres on tarmac and a click as the door was pushed open. A tip-tap of high heels moving and a swoosh of another door opening and closing.   
“Get in brother.”  
His brother was angry. It wasn’t noticeable to anyone else of course but the slightest over pronunciation of the words betrayed the tension within. He wasn’t obliged to get in; he needed to find John, John who was relying on him, John who needed him. _(He tried not to concentrate too much on the fuzzy feeling in his stomach, the pride and warmth of being needed by someone, of saving someone._ )   
But his transport didn’t listen to his brain, or rather, listened and decided it was far too busy to focus on menial things like walking. So into the car he went and so did his assistants.   
He was vaguely aware of Mycroft and Irene’s exchange of glances, the recognition and then the affirmation.   
Silence prevailed. Well, prevailed until Sherlock noticed something.   
“No.”  
“Sherlock-“  
“No.”  
“Sherlock listen to reason-“  
“No, you listen to reason. I need to find John and your mollycoddling is not helping. Now take me to this address. Immediately.” He shoved the phone in Mycroft’s face, although he had reason to believe all texts he received went immediately to Mycroft’s phone or that of his ever present assistant.  
“Sherlock,” his brother said, using a very calm tone. Oh god, this was worse than he thought. “I know that you are eager to go racing off at the mere mention of John’s name but you have to understand. All CCTV from the area has been wiped, like the time hasn’t existed at all. No one has reported seeing anything happen. You are no idiot; you can see this text is a trap. These people are dangerous and skilled and we need to plan this out before you go racing towards your demise.”  
“But John-“  
“-is currently in an unknown situation. I am fully certain that your doctor is behaving admirably; his past training should suffice to keep him level headed through all of this.”   
“You think he’s okay then?” Lestrade tentatively pitched in.   
“They have taken him for a reason Detective Inspector, a reason that should start behaving his age and less like it was 6 years old child.” He glared at his younger brother, who had the urge to stick his tongue out in spite. “They need him alive to give us sufficient reason to enter this proverbial lion’s den.”  
Sherlock felt his insides contract as his brain supplied the image from the text, only this time John wasn’t getting back up, was never getting back up, was never running with him, was never touching him, was never kissing him again, was never, ever coming back-  
“Sherlock. Sherlock, I want you to listen to me. Now breathe in.”  
His body tried to rebel against his mind and the voice as he felt the huge intake of breath.   
“Right, now breath out.”  
He let all of the air back out.  
“In.”  
In.  
“Out.”  
Out.   
Someone was shaking.  
“In.”  
He was shaking.  
“Out.”  
Why was he shaking? Why was Mycroft reminding him how to breathe? As his breathing returned to normal, his eyes open; though he didn’t remember closing them and he looked round.   
2 pairs of concerned eyes stared at him, one pair blatantly worried, the other guarded but creased slightly at the edges. The eyes in his peripheral vision however, were staring at him curiously.   
“You okay?” Lestrade asked. He didn’t trust his voice and so merely nodded, then turned to his brother.  
“Slight panic attack. When you’ve quite finished with your emotional responses however, I would ask you to turn your mind back to the case at hand. It appears you will be meeting your murderer sooner than expected.”  
“Wait, you think the murderers taken John? But we don’t even know who they are yet!” Lestrade blurted out.  
Mycroft’s lips twitched into his poor attempt of a smile. “Oh but _we do_ , Detective Inspector, we do. We’ve just been waiting for our opportune moment to strike and now, here it is.”

###

It appeared he was in a warehouse. This struck him as odd, a bit too evil villain-esque, a bit too James Bond. The glaring light had been from the lamps surrounding him, proper photography style ones from school photo days, turned up to max. It had made his head swim at first, almost forcing him back into the dark but he’d managed to cling on. The rest of the room was shrouded in darkness, though John had a feeling it was probably derelict and dark, judging from the space surrounding him and the ceiling. He’d been chained up to a chair ( _handcuffs, as he’d originally thought)_ and he was only missing his jacket and whatever had been in his jeans pockets. His skin felt bruised and a bit battered but if he was being honest, he’d been in much worse situations. Unfortunately that knowledge, rather than being comforting, put him on edge. Clearly it wasn’t going to be this simple.   
The sound of footsteps approaching was unmistakable in the silence and they didn’t appear to be in a rush.   
“Hello Johnny-boy.”   
He’d heard that voice before. Memories of his last kidnapping came to the forefront on his mind, the lilting Irish accent providing an instantaneous reaction. His heartbeat sped up and adrenaline surged through his veins.  
“Moriarty.”  
The figure that came into view was as impeccably dressed as he remembered, this time in blue, and was sauntering with his hands in his pockets, utterly relaxed.   
“Oh good, you _do_ remember. Sebastian was worried you might forget the first time we did this. But John, oh John, do we have plans for you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhangers are my new thing...


	7. Tea and a Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a short bridge type chapter but I hope it's good nonetheless :) 
> 
> Just want to say quickly a huge THANKS to everyone reading, commenting and kudo-ing this and my other fics; love you guys.
> 
> Also BAMF! Mrs Hudson appears again.

If Sherlock had allowed himself to be, he would have been mildly surprised that Mrs Hudson was waiting for them at one of Mycroft’s city based houses ( _they were strategically based so that one was always a 20 minute drive away_ ). She was perched by the window, clearly expecting their arrival but vanished as soon as the car halted and its occupants exited. However his brain was focused, in case mode once more and he merely filed it away for a later time, when his world had gained back its equilibrium.

The worry that had begun to twist itself inside was locked into the basement of his mind palace, though it was doing its best to escape. John’s rooms had been moved as well; far too distracting and tainted with panic to be useful.

Every time he thought of John, his John, he felt anger, a boiling fury, at the people, at Moriarty, who had the _audacity_ to think they could just take what was _his_ and what was under _his_ protection. Didn’t they realise who he was, what he was? Didn’t they realise what he could do? Didn’t they realise what _John_ could do?

Idiots.

But there was another feeling, a feeling he wasn’t overly familiar with, at least, not since his childhood. It clawed at him, like a feral cat, demanding to be felt and yet it was unbearable in its intensity.

Sherlock Holmes felt guilty.

The pile of what ifs were taunting and, as someone who only dealt with facts, they only served to remind him how his oblivious actions earlier had so acutely affected the present. It wasn’t often that Sherlock admitted that he may have made an error. Irene had once informed him that he thought he was a higher power of some kind, a God. “Look were that got the others,” she’d warned, almost solemnly but it was useless and she knew it. She had then grinned, Irene once more, “At least don’t flaunt it.” Sherlock would protest that he definitely does not _flaunt_ anything but, even back then, he vaguely understood the sentiment of concern. That didn’t stop him from being correct, from solving puzzles and mysteries that no one else could and when someone who was so sure that they knew best, so absolutely certain... Another memory. Mycroft this time, when they were much, much younger, Sherlock a burgeoning addict, Mycroft an actual junior official. They were having an argument ( _weren’t they always?_ ), the subject matter deleted but a line, a phrase had stuck with him. “You are not indestructible Sherlock, no matter what you think. Be careful, young Icarus,” Mycroft had said in that awful condescending tone, like he knew what was going to happen because, of course, the golden child would be right, wouldn’t he. Sherlock had then proceeded to tell him the “Fuck off with his mythology,” and the talk dissolved.

“Here. Drink that dear,” a mug of tea appeared in front of him, on the coffee table that Sherlock didn’t remember sitting next to. Mycroft, Lestrade and Irene had already started discussing plans of action around the dining room table, backs turned to him. Sherlock was on the sofa, a place where he had always found oddly comforting; he was a lounger by nature with odd bursts of speed to alleviate the boredom.

“You’re panicking.” Mrs Hudson stated, perching herself next to him, putting her bag on the floor next to her feet.

“You’re not.”

“Oh no,” she smiled, “you boys will find him. Rip each other to shreds doing it but you’ll find him.” She said it with such conviction that Sherlock was inclined to believe her. Mrs Hudson was a lot of things, intrusive and irritating at times yet always dependable in a crisis. It was as if she just, knew. Knew what was bothering someone, knew how to solve it but heaven be damned if she told anyone else.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked abruptly, having lapsed into silence. She brushed off the rudeness and replied simply.

“Mycroft rang. Told me what had happened and then asked me to bring tea, biscuits and this,” she said, producing a gun from her coat pocket. There are few things that genuinely stuck in Sherlock’s brain, few things that were resistant to any kind of deletion technique. Mrs Hudson holding John’s gun in one hand and a cup of tea in the other was one of them. “Oh don’t look so surprised dear. Never been a good look on you.” Sherlock took the gun, checked it over and then slipped it into his coat pocket. She didn’t say anything.

“Since when have you and Mycroft been on speaking terms?” As far as Sherlock could remember they had barely knew each other. She chuckled.

“Oh you don’t know everything Sherlock Holmes.”

“He told you to spy on me.”

“Oh no, nothing like that. Apparently our agreement is that I keep an eye on you, make sure you’re okay, eating, sleeping,” she waved her hand in an etcetera gesture, “and he pays for the wall damage.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched and he looked sideways at his landlady.

“And so our payments go towards?” She smiled at him and leaned closer, talking in a conspiratorial whisper.

“That goes into a fund specifically for traumatised landladies whose lodgers keep on assuming it is okay to store body parts in the fridge.”

“My fridge.”

“My flat.” He huffed.

“I will not get drawn into a stupid argument.”

“Good decision dear.” She patted his knee and then drifted off towards the kitchen, taking her belongings with her.

Sherlock sat staring at his untouched tea. John would have probably made him drink a bit.

He missed John.

He missed him and he wanted him back. Simple fact.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

**Don’t leave me waiting Sherlock. We wouldn’t want to break your toy-JM**

Sherlock glanced at the others. All were gathered around the table, looking at what appeared to be a map. They appeared to have forgotten he was there, or thought that Mrs Hudson was watching him. So Sherlock stood up, walked through the kitchen (Mrs Hudson was getting lost in the pantry) and out of the back door. Once he was out of the gates, he sent a text.

**On my way-SH**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay plot building! Next Chapter: A meeting of minds...


	8. Meetings: Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty and Sherlock finally have their meeting...

The warehouse was, dare he say it ( _it’s Sherlock, of course he’s going to say it_ ) boring. Dull. Something worthy of Mycroft but not Moriarty, not the psychotic brilliance of the criminal he’d met by the pool. The idea that this was a trap was obvious but, with no other leads, it was his best chance at finding John. A small part of his brain was telling him that perhaps Moriarty wasn’t in there; that he was watching, making John watch, as Sherlock walked towards what was presumably his capture.   
But Moriarty didn’t work that way.  
He would be in there, Sherlock was sure. The main problem was whether John was in there? Was he okay?

The door creaked open as he reached it.

He walked in, head held high. It wouldn’t do to show the anxiety that was making his skin crawl and stomach clench. His eyes fell upon the odd structure in the expansive room. 4 lights shone to form a box, highlighting one point and heavy curtains barricades the weak light that came from the windows around the warehouse. From the centre, outside of the pool of blinding light, the surroundings would look pitch black. But the odd set up was not the main focus of most of Sherlock's mind. The main focus was the people in the spotlight, like they were in a twisted theatre production. John would be centre stage, slumped in a chair, looking barely conscious. Bruises littered his skin but the true extent of his injures were unknown from this distance. It was almost painful, having to prevent himself from running up and gathering him up, a sentimental action of protection.   
An action too late.

"Hello Sherly," the Irish lilt was misleadingly soft, "was wondering when you would turn up. We were beginning to get worried you weren't going to show."

With that, he turned his eyes to the only other person; Moriarty himself, a sharpened grin on his face. The most surprising thing? The jet black wings stretched out behind him.

"You needn't have worried. I trust I'm not too late to play?"

  
***

  
Although in no state to indicate to Sherlock, John was actually still conscious enough to hear what was going on. His sight was impaired by the black eye and odd light set up he had but he could still see slightly, a strip of vision that he was clinging onto.

His captors had taken a sick pleasure in making him vulnerable enough so that when Moriarty showed his face once again, john was in no state but to look at him and hope the loathing that radiated from his being would suffice. Moriarty’s wings had been a surprise but they were nothing like Sherlock’s. Where Sherlock’s gleamed, shining like they were stars, Moriarty’s were dark, like a black hole; destructive and unstoppable. But he hadn’t had much chance to wonder about the wing situation before other thoughts took over his mind, mainly those of the pain he was experiencing and the flickers between hope of rescue and despair of never getting out.

When Sherlock entered, bringing with him an excellent back light from the open door, a flare of hope ignited in his chest but was quickly diminished when Moriarty began speaking.   
Sherlock never could resist a challenge and here, one was being dangled in front of his nose, seductively close.

“Oh Sherlock. This isn’t a game anymore, darling.” The soft caressing tone was dangerous. John had always known to brace himself when the voice changed into it as it signalled a highly changeable mood.

Even John could see Sherlock’s raised eyebrow. “Oh really? So what is this then?”

“Retribution.”

The word hung in the air. John’s brain tried to sluggishly work out what that meant. Bloody cryptic, mad geniuses. But, luckily, Moriarty seemed keen to explain himself.

“You see Sherlock, in the beginning of this little game of ours, I _admired_ you. You were exactly what our side needed, exactly who we wanted. You had so much _potential_. A fallen angel; not a weak fledgling like we’d been looking into but full grown with power and yet still to decide a side. The hypocritical saved or the honest damned; not really much of choice in my opinion but then again, you do love working for the ‘good’ side. We would have made you a good deal Sherlock. You’ve already experienced what the ‘proper’ angels think of you. But us, we understood you; you would have thrived with us Sherlock.”

Though he couldn’t see his face, John could imagine the manic look on Moriarty’s face. It was oddly clichéd; the mad villain ranting at the hero, only to ( _hopefully_ ) be foiled as he reveals his plot. John had to restrain a giggle. Not only would it hurt but Moriarty wasn’t known for his stability at the best of times. Wait a minute, did that mean he was the _damsel-in-distress_?

Moriarty continued, while John’s mind fumed at the idea of being called a ‘damsel’. “But then _this_ happened,” Moriarty gestured to John, “and Sherlock, I was so disappointed.”

“I have no qualms about disappointing you, trust me.” Sherlock’s voice had changed. John couldn’t quite detect what had changed or when but it sounded angrier somehow, even though it retained the calm levelled tone.

“Oh you might not. But you see, I can’t allow this Sherlock.” Moriarty was shaking his head. “It would be a disgrace. But I suppose you know all about that don’t you?”

John could see the twitch in Sherlock’s jaw but he said nothing. John felt a flare of anger. How dare he insult Sherlock? Okay, so there was clearly some past that he didn’t know about but John could emphatically say that since they’d known each other, Sherlock had never been a disgrace. Bossy, unpredictable, had no regard for his own personal safety but disgraceful? No.

But Moriarty still wasn’t finished.

“The Boss isn’t happy Sherlock. He was fine with you wandering about this earth, thinking you were some martyr but now? You know what he thinks of _them_. You know what he does to them. You know the price you have to pay.”

Now John was really lost. Who the hell was ‘The Boss’? Wasn’t Moriarty the leader in all this?

"I'm not concerned with what Lucifer thinks of me. He cannot harm me so long as I stay up here and I think you will find I am quite comfortable where I am."

Moriarty chuckled.

"You think you’re so much better than us Demons don’t you Sherlock? But we’re the same, you and me. Both of our ancestors fell from the highest place imaginable but mine just fell a bit more you see. They never were much good at negotiation, not like your ancestors. However, I do think I got the better deal. Much rather spend eternity doing something I enjoy, rather than being reborn every couple of years and having to work out all this again." He flexed his wings in indication. “Now I’m feeling nice, so I’m giving you one last chance. Give this up,” he said, pointing to John, “and come join us. That way, your little pet doesn’t get hurt and you get all the power you’ve ever wanted. Every person through those gates is a puzzle Sherlock. That’s what you want isn’t it? To not be bored anymore.”

It was as if Sherlock was frozen. He wasn’t moving and John could see that the mind palace face was on. John’s brain was also stuck, jammed with all the information trying to settle in his brain ( _Moriarty, Demons, Falling, Wings, Lucifer, Help, Sherlock)_ but his body still tensed up when Sherlock’s immediate answer wasn’t ‘no’. Surely he wasn’t considering this lunacy? Or was the lure of an infinite number of mysteries enough to sway him into a side with Demons? (J _ohn couldn’t quite believe that he was thinking about Demons as if they were a regular occurrence but when you have a boyfriend as a consulting detective who also happened to have wings, the weird became normal and the normal, boring._ ) In the beginning, John had always been vaguely worried about Sherlock becoming bored of him and disregarding him like a broken toy but he thought he was over those old insecurities.   
Sherlock’s eyes locked onto John’s. He saw a spark of _something_ in the Detective’ eyes.

“Thank you for the offer,” Sherlock said, turning back to Moriarty, “But I have everything I have ever wanted and some things I didn’t realise I needed up here. I would rather be dragged to hell than go voluntarily.” His lips quirked into a brief, small smirk; the one he used to give the appearance of being polite.

Moriarty laughed without feeling and walked to the side slightly. “Oh honey, that can be arranged. Moran, would you do the honours?”   
A flicker of shadows in his peripheral vision, John couldn’t see who, or rather what ‘Moran’ was but could hear the sound of a rusty gate being moved. Sherlock was practically buzzing. Trust him to be excited about something that will probably be trying to kill him, John thought. When Sherlock’s eyes widened and his wings unfurled, almost subconsciously, John knew that he was, to out it plainly, fucked.

_Thud, Thud. Thud, Thud._

_If I didn’t know any better_ , John thought, _I’d say that was an animal. A big animal. Like a-._ He didn’t get to finish that train of logic because what was in front of him was not logically possible.

The hell hound was massive, easily taller than Sherlock and was snarling, with thick black fur and glowing red eyes. It didn’t appear to know what to focus on, its huge head flicking between Sherlock, John and Moriarty, jaws snapping at everyone. One thing it seemed certain of was that he was angry and, from where John was slumped, probably hungry.

“Boys, meet Cerberus,” Moriarty paused for effect, like he was revealing his final trick.

“Cerberus, meet lunch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. Sorry it took a bit longer to get this chapter up. My brain couldn't quite work out how I wanted this chapter to go so I hope it was okay and makes sense. But in good news, I have the day off Friday so next update soon. Please tell me what you think and see you guys soon!
> 
> (Also, yes I do realise this is another cliffhanger. this one was actually planned though.) :)


	9. Monsters and Miracles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penultimate chapter! and oh god does it get fluffy :)
> 
> Also there may be a reference to another fandom in here...

John Watson has been in situations before where he’s prayed for a miracle. When he was 7 and broke that expensive vase in his grandmother’s living room. When he was waiting for his exam results that would decide whether he was going to become a doctor or not. When he was in Afghanistan, his blood staining the sand. When Sherlock nearly took that pill, on their very first case together, the one he was nearly too late.  
John Watson has prayed before and somehow, has always been heard. So when Sherlock, _his Sherlock,_ was stood staring down that beast of hell, his impossible wings contrasting the darkness in the room, lit by the partially open door, John Watson did the only thing he could do.  
He asked for a miracle.  
The creature was advancing, snarling, all its teeth showing. All it would take was one swipe of a paw and Sherlock would be crushed, one snap of jaws and-

Light flooded the warehouse as the door was kicked fully open. John was blinded for a few seconds as the change hit his eyes. Voices were shouting; distinctly someone who sounded suspiciously like Lestrade. John’s eyes adjusted in time to see Mycroft and Lestrade stood either side of Sherlock. The hell hound, scared of the light, had retreated but Moriarty strolled forwards, intrigued, bringing him into John’s eye line.

“Oh look! Here’s big brother, come to save the day. Don’t you ever get bored of him bailing you out?”

“James Moriarty, I presume.” Mycroft arched an eyebrow, as if too lazy to actually frame a question. He was still carrying his ever present umbrella.

“How did you guess?” If he could have, John would’ve rolled his eyes. It appeared like every genius had a flair for the dramatic and sarcastic approach.

“The warehouse gave it away slightly,” Lestarde, surprisingly, replied confidently, although he had a look on his face as if he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or not.

“Oh and you brought your pet Detective Inspector! Isn’t that just adorable? Now, as much as I’d love to stay and chat-“  
“I don’t know where you think you are going but you are sure to be disappointed,” Sherlock’s interrupted, stating each word through clenched teeth.

“Oh what are you going to do Sherlock? You don’t have any powers to speak of and your brother here wouldn’t dare. He’s too high up see. So tell me boys, what are you going to do?”

“We’re going to do this,” Mycroft said simply before releasing wings of pure white, clipped and orderly compared to the chaos of Sherlock. Moriarty barely had time to look surprised before he and the hound were shrouded in white light.  
It was the last straw for John’s consciousness, as he felt his eyes closed tight, a welcome darkness pulling him away from the brightness. His last memories were of hands cupping his face and a deep voice calling to him, telling him to hold on, telling him not to leave...

***

“You do realise the doctors said he would be fine? Most of the injuries superficial and the blood loss fairly limited ring any bells? Everything’s fine.”

  
Sherlock continued to pace outside the waiting room doors, pointedly ignoring Lestrade in the hopes he would just leave. Unfortunately his brother had obviously put him on guard duty after the ‘disappearing act’ earlier and so Sherlock was left to tune out the constant hum of unnecessary reassurances. As far as he was concerned, until he managed to get into the infernally locked cage of a hospital room and check over John himself, everything was decidedly not fine.

  
Luckily the DI’s stubborn resolve was deteriorating and he merely sighed at Sherlock’s prolonged silence and lent back further in the ridiculous plastic chair he had settled in. Several minutes later, a nurse ( _male, been out of country for a long time, name beginning with R- Ryan? Rowan? Rory?  Not important_ ) announced that they could go through and Sherlock barrelled past him, not bothering to listen to the end of the sentence, leaving Lestrade to deal with the rather annoyed expression and sighs.

He paused just outside the propped open door ( _Mycroft had secured a private room, showing off, as usual_ ) and looked in, enjoying the flood of new information after being forced to stare at the same walls for so long. John looked far too small in the hospital bed, almost unrecognisable. His eyes were shut but his breathing didn’t suggest sleep so hopefully just resting. Sherlock glanced at the rest of the room. Bland. Boring. He’d always hated hospitals.

“You’ve got your deduction face on.” John’s eyes were open and he was looking at him, sleepily. “Now come on over here,” he said gesturing to the chairs at the side of the bed. Sherlock flung himself on one and took of his coat before speaking.

“We will be leaving for Baker Street immediately. This room is unacceptable.” John laughed and Sherlock couldn’t help but let his lips quirk into a small smile.

“Yeah, well, we’ll have to see about that. Although everything seems fine they want to keep me in overnight, just to make sure.” Sherlock didn’t bother replying _(he’d found out earlier)_ but sighed anyway, to broadcast his displeasure. He needed to talk to John but the conversation couldn’t take place here. Here was unknown territory. Here was not home.

“Hey, don’t be like that. It could have been much worse you know. Wait, what’s wrong? What did you do?” John took in Sherlock’s slightly guilty expression. It wasn’t immediately noticeable but there was something about the way his face went especially blank, making him look more like Mycroft ( _though no one would ever tell him that_ ).

“Nothing that is of present concern.” John raised his eyebrows. “Originally your injuries were more...extensive,” Sherlock said, choosing his words carefully. “I will explain more once you are well enough to leave here. I promise.” John nodded, smiling, but the calculating look in his eyes didn’t leave.  
So Sherlock did the one thing that he had avoided for the majority of his life. He gave in to sentiment.

John looked initially surprised at the sudden armful of detective hugging his waist, nose snuggling into his neck, but quickly responded, one arm around Sherlock’s back, the other tangled in his curls. He planted a quick kiss to the detective’s forehead before muttering “Soppy git” into his ear. The responding chuckle rumbled through his chest and he only just managed to hear the quiet “I’m glad you’re safe.” It was so unusual for Sherlock to be this emotional _(John usually initiated most contact in their relationship and although he obviously enjoyed it, it was as if Sherlock hadn’t realised he could too_ ) that John was briefly at a loss as to what he was going to say, choosing to instead tighten the hug. He decided to reply simply.

“Me too Sherlock. Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry but I just can't seem to write seriously. Let me know what you think and Next time Sherlock does a bit of explaining... is there anything you guys want to find out?


	10. Explanations and another Brotherly conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be prepared for quite a lot of dialogue and quite a bit of fluff...

Lestrade eventually found them, having been held up by the nurse, some odd pieces of paperwork that were thrown his way and a phone call from Mycroft making sure everything was running smoothly. He had expected to be either restraining John from standing up and hitting Sherlock round the head for saying something insensitive or restraining Sherlock from hitting John for disappearing. He’d never seen Sherlock look so lost before; almost regressing to the man-child Lestrade had first been introduced to. What he hadn’t expected was John to be using Sherlock as a very awkward type of blanket, Sherlock spread eagle over him, both sound asleep. Well, Sherlock had always had a knack of surprising him.

**Lights out over here. Should stand guard?- GL**

**If it does not inconvenience you, I would be most grateful.- MH**

**Your recording this, yes?- GL**

**Yes and Yes you will have access to a copy to use at your will- MH**

**Pleasure doing business Mr Holmes- GL**

***  
John was allowed out the next day and Sherlock was quick to hustle him into a taxi, not allowing him out of his sight.  
“I’m not going anywhere Sherlock,” John huffed but permitted himself to be herded. It was only when he was carefully tucked up in his chair, tea in hand that Sherlock perched into his chair, mask of indifference back in place.  
“So, what do you want to know?” The piercing eyes were fully focused on him and so John answered with his knee-jerk reaction.

“Everything.”  
Sherlock repressed a sigh; he’d promised himself that he would be patient. “Too vague John. Try again.”

John sat back and actually _thought_ about the question. It was a little surprising; even though they’d promised to talk later, he hadn’t realised that later was _now_. “Start at the beginning. Why do you have the wings?”

“I was born with them; it wasn’t like they magically appeared. They’re as much a part of me as a tail is to a cat, though I am better at hiding them than most.”

“So there’s no specific reason for you having them?”

“Not, generally.” John narrowed his eyes. Sherlock looked guilty again; he kept on shuffling in his seat and was looking somewhere past John’s left shoulder.

“Generally? What are you hiding Sherlock Holmes?”  
Sherlock looked at him, straight in the eyes, silver meeting solid blue. Sherlock took a deep breath. “Angels are real John. I am one.”

John eyes widened as he stared into those eyes that he knew so well. Eyes that were not lying. He nodded; a silent signal to go on.

“Wings are hereditary. But mine-. My wings they’re-” Sherlock huffed an annoyed breath and began again. John had never seen him struggle this much with speech before.

“There are things about my wings that I am not proud of.  When you met me I was an outcast, even I admit it, god I embraced it, but it wasn’t only from conventional society.  The slashes, on my wings, they’re marks of something called a ‘Fallen’.  They’re the angels that fell but didn’t fall far enough.  They got stuck somehow, stuck here on Earth and they couldn’t get back up so they stayed here, integrated with the population.”

“So why are you outcast?” John asked, confused.  
“Others still remember, still remember what the Fallen did before the whole ‘rebellion’. You may think humanity is deprived but this, this nothing. Of course the worst were sent down, to the lowest level, but the Fallen, they were the ones that He thought could learn from their mistakes, become better somehow. But the other angels remembered their acts and they never forgot. The Fallen are treated as lesser and are seen as a danger waiting to explode.”

“So, you _fell_?” John was beginning to wonder how old Sherlock actually was, like they were stuck in that ridiculous teen series.

Sherlock looked surprised. “Me, what, no! No, I was born, weren’t you listening? I have my wings because of biology and my personality. My mother and father must have had the genes for Fallen and I kept them because of who I am.”  
Sherlock’s eyes glazed over slightly, as if remembering something in the distant past.  
“My mother was not pleased with my wings. Practically kicked me out over them. But that is neither here nor there. What else do you want to know?” Sherlock shook himself abruptly and John knew better than to go digging in his past. Sherlock would tell him, whenever he was ready.

“What was Moriarty? And Mycroft, Mycroft had wings, didn’t he?”

“Moriarty was a demon and a pure one. Born in the pits of Hell and raised to be a powerful monster in his own right. Myc-”

“Wait, Hell? As in fire and brimstone Hell?”

“So you can accept that Angels and Demons are real but when you get to the places they inhabit, that’s where you draw the line?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows incredulously.

“Fair enough. Continue.” Sherlock smirked at John’s commanding tone ( _which he secretly liked but he wasn’t going to mention that_ now _, he’d probably be told off for timing_ ).

“Mycroft is almost the exact opposite. Full angel, white wings, celestial light, everything, though how or why I will never fully understand. That’s how he got rid of Moriarty. Demons do not react well to pure light and Hell Hounds, significantly less so.”

“What happened to them, after the light?”

“Mycroft used the light to send them back to Hell, hopefully permanently. The light also helped with your injuries. They were more extensive than I thought but Mycroft managed to deal with all of the serious problem areas.” Sherlock grimaced at the thought of allowing Mycroft this victory.

“And you’re not going to tell me what those injuries were, are you?” Sherlock smirked at John’s begrudging tone. “No, no I’m not.”

“So Angels have powers yes? Do you have them? Or Moriarty?” John hoped neither of them did; he couldn’t control a supernaturally charged Sherlock and Moriarty with powers was frankly terrifying.

“I do not. The Fallen had to relinquish their powers if they were going to live among humans for an extended period. I suppose they assumed they would try and take you over if they had the control. Moriarty may have some but Demon power is no match for the Angelic.”

“You keep on saying they.” John announced.

“What?” Now it was Sherlock’s turn to look puzzled, an expression not often used.

“You keep on saying they, whenever you talk about the Fallen ones. You should be saying us.”

Sherlock smiled, very small but genuine. “I am more Human than Fallen John. I rarely ever show my wings to anyone, not even other Supernatural beings.”

“Why? Embarrassed?”

“Although I may moan about the ignorance and stupidity of the general population, I do envy you one thing; your humanity. I wasn’t accepted for who I was in every situation and I was annoyed by the subservience of most of my ‘kind’ as you would undoubtedly put it. I’ve spent most of my life trying to emulate being human and most of my life succeeding. It’s just, easier.” Sherlock shrugged and John found himself looking, not at the fierce yet mouthy consulting detective but a lost teenager, who was desperate to fit in somehow. It made him sad to think of how long Sherlock had been running from who he was.

“Well you don’t have to pretend anymore Sherlock. Not with me. It really doesn’t matter to me what or who you are, though thatmight be because I’m not entirely sure about the whole thing anyway. I’m still John and you’re still Sherlock, okay?”

  
John was surprised to suddenly found himself with a lapful of consulting detective who, over the past few days, had developed a limpet type reflex to extreme emotion. What was surprising was the contrasting soft and scratchy texture of Sherlock’s wings which were enveloping the chair, creating a safe space where it was just Sherlock and John. They sat like that for a few moments, Sherlock’s nose pressed into John’s neck, and John’s arms circled around Sherlock’s back. Then Sherlock’s head twisted upwards until their lips met and they melted together. John swiped his tongue across Sherlock’s lower lips until he was granted access and the kiss deepened until Sherlock was straddling John’s lap, his fingers twisted in the neat blonde hair.

  
The kiss heated up, both fighting for a little dominance and they would have continued to the inevitable conclusion, if it were not for a quiet “Ahem” from the doorway. The open doorway.  
Both of them looked, more than slightly disgruntled at the interruption. Sherlock’s wings disappeared on reflex. Mycroft Holmes stood with a blank expression at the front; impossibly tidy suit and umbrella to match, with a smirking Greg Lestrade and a positively beaming Mrs Hudson behind him.

  
“Well, I’ll just leave you boys if you don’t mind. Important business,” she said and bustled off down the stairs again, probably to inform Ms Turner next door about the ‘shenanigans upstairs’ as they’d taken to calling them.

“Piss off Mycroft,” spat Sherlock.

“Oh please, don’t let us interrupt. We can always call back later. It’s not like this is important or pertaining to you in anyway,” Mycroft drawled as he took the vacant seat opposite. Lestrade disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared with a chair which he put next to Mycroft’s. Sherlock, ever petulant, simply twisted round, still sat on John’s knee and pouted (not that he would admit it).

“What do you want?”

“Just tying up a few loose ends brother. Unfortunately some of us have jobs with actual rules and regulations that need following.” Sherlock scoffed but presented no argument. They then proceeded to have one of those silent conversations that materialised only in eyebrow twitches which no else understood before Mycroft spoke again.

“And how much does he know?”

“Everything relevant. How much does yours know?”

“In your own words, everything relevant.”

“Will he be back?”

“No. We had a word with his superiors. They were most unimpressed with his little escapades.”

“And his assistant?”

“Similar reaction I assure you.” Sherlock nodded.

“Where did Irene go?” John was pleased to hear a question he understood, as well as being curious as to the answer. He hadn’t seen her since the crime scene; not that he was complaining.

“We’re having her monitored. She took Mrs Hudson back here and then returned to her home though she presumably won’t be there for long. No doubt she will let you know somehow.”

“Why would you need Irene monitored?” John interrupted. It wasn’t that he wasn’t pleased, just curious. He had presumed it was some strange jealousy that affected himself.

“Everything brother?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow and was wearing a smug grin.

“Everything relevant.”

Lestrade coughed.  
“Look guys, I’m not entirely sure where this conversations going so I’m going to stop you now.” Sherlock huffed, almost as if concealing a laugh before John elbowed him, on reflex.

“Right now that I’ve been appropriately scolded and condescended to, can you both leave?”

“Sherlock! Manners,” John said but secretly hoped that they would both take the hint and go anyway. Luckily both did, Mycroft with his usual tip of the umbrella, Greg with a grin and nod of the head.

“You have more questions I presume?” Sherlock sighed as he twisted once more in John’s direction.

“Yeah. What was that all about?”

“Oh just my brother sticking his nose in where it’s not wanted nor needed.” At John’s puzzled expression Sherlock elaborated. “He’s checking you were appropriately informed about the wing situation.”

“Why does he care? Or is this another of his big brother complexes?”

“Well because he’s Mycroft and therefore insufferably controlling, he’s not only the British Government but also the leading Angel Representative for this area. He essentially spies on all Angelic business and then reports back, fixing as many problems as he can, although his refusal to move more than 4 feet to do so is a bit of a hindrance. He could almost be as bad as Gabriel but with less smiting and more paperwork.”

John chose (wisely he thought) to ignore the last sentence and focus on the other confusing part of the impromptu visit.

“And Lestrade was there because?” At that Sherlock giggled. John thought it was possibly the most adorable sound he had ever heard.

“You’ve heard of the terms Guardian Angels, yes? Well, that term is somewhat correct; some Angels do have significant bonds to humans, though they often are of a more romantic nature than people presume. How they worked it out I’m not sure, must be recent. Mycroft, the lying git, told me that he’d never even thought about telling anyone, not that that would be needed if you’re bonded. The information just sort of appears in their heads.”

“Wait you mean, _Greg and Mycroft_?” Sherlock full on laughed at the incredulous tone and nodded.

“They haven’t said anything officially of course. They’re afraid I would use it against them somehow. That must be why he lied to me; idiotic man, thinking he could keep this from me.” Sherlock muttered the last part of the sentence but once again John ignored it in favour of other thought.

John tried to think about how a relationship with Mycroft Holmes would even work but then felt slightly nauseous and decided to try and forget about it. It wasn’t that he was unhappy for them but he had to admit to himself, it was just plain weird. Then again, people thought that about him and Sherlock, well the few people that knew anyway.

“Anyway,” Sherlock announced, turning to fully straddle John again, placing their foreheads together, “Enough Questions. I do believe we were doing something before being so rudely interrupted.”  
John merely grinned and brought his lips up to meet Sherlock’s again, revelling in the sensation and quickly forgetting the world around them.

In that moment it was just them, John and Sherlock; a once broken man and his very own fallen angel.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right guys, that was it! I hope you've enjoyed reading this at least half as much as I've enjoyed writing it. The comments and kudos have all been wonderful. Tell me what you thought of the ending and if there's anything confusing/ unresolved and I'll try and help out. 
> 
> Come find me at dinosaursdontplaypianos.tumblr.com and hopefully see you guys soon :D

**Author's Note:**

> No beta and all the copyright goes to those who own the characters, I'm just messing around :)


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